The chilled metal stings my fingers. I pull my shirt over my head and stuff it into the locker, along with my boots, wallet, and other items. Slamming the door shut, I jimmie the padlock through the handle and secure the locker. I hang the key around my neck.

The austere fluorescent light shines down with harsh critique, I avoid staring at the mirrors as I shuffle towards the door. Hesitation halts my progress, a deep breath whistles through my lungs to oxygenate my dying courage. I want- no- I need this. Damn it, just take what you need for once!

“Okay…”
A sinking feeling in the pit of ‘my’ stomach accompanies the quiet voice screaming “you’ve fucked up again!”
‘I’ can’t seem to get that voice out of ‘my’ head…

Both hands slap the door open, my feet take me through into the dark corridor. Red shielded bulbs glow for illumination that adds further depth to the darkness. The pale walls seem to bleed. The doors are carved into the walls like recessed secrets stretching down either side of the hallway.

The silence is deafening.

I look down on my hand, a stamp beneath my knuckles glows “37” in the light. The first door says “46”, the next “42”. I keep walking down, tracking the numbers until I reach “37”.

A single window is set into the door, but it is covered. I knock on the door, eyes sinking down to my bare toes. The snick of the opened lock and the gape of the door are the only invitation necessary.

I kneel on the floor and allow the cold to seep into my bones. Head bowed, shoulders bent, I wait quietly. Fingers comb through my hair, and I shudder, otherwise remaining still. The fingers tighten and pull, I scramble to keep up, crawling on my hands and knees until I hit something- a wall I presume from the touch of brick.

“Hands.”

I stretch my arms up above my head. Within seconds, a ring of steel clamps down around my wrists, keeping them suspended above my head.

The first strike of leather against my skin is almost painless. The second brings sensation. By the fourth strike, pain runs up my back like a trail of fire ants. Fingers clench into fists, my throat tightens as my breathing accelerates.

But my brain is busy, never ceasing. Never stopping, that Voice NEVER STOPS.

You know what the worst part is? Looking in the mirror and hating that face, that person.

Slumping to the floor, I stare up, unseeing. Buried under the weight of my failure. Clutching my raw throat, listening to that broken voice cutting hoarsely through my ears, it takes me a moment to realize

“imsorry-imsorry-imsorry-imsorry-imsorry-imsorry-imsorry-imsorry!”

that voice is my own.

A hand covers my chanting lips, a soft gentle whisper through the darkness.